


Quarantine

by Writing-The-Thing (writingfanfic)



Category: The Thing (1982)
Genre: F/M, Illnesses, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 15:27:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14813993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-The-Thing
Summary: For the prompt: 'Can I have a fic Where reader got sick after being stuck outside and Macready cares for them?'Sure can! Grumpy man.





	Quarantine

“I don’t get why you had to be quarantined to my shack. I mean… we have a goddamn medical bay. Doc could’ve stuck you in there.”

You stay quiet, the smallest smile on your face. The man in the shack is ranting and raving – knowing full well why you are in here – but you know he’s all show. Next second, he sits down on the edge of the bunk, and feels your forehead.

“I mean, I got a space heater in here. Surely that can’t be good for you…”

“Do I get a kiss?” you whisper reedily, and he rolls his eyes.

“I can’t believe you got a cold from stayin’ outside where you didn’t need to,” he scolds, and you make a kissy face. “I am not putting my face near you. You’re gonna decommission the pilot, and Palmer’s not got his rating yet.”

“I didn’t get the cold from staying outside. It weakened my immune system and I happened to pick up the cold, potentially from-”

“Yeah, yeah, save me the spiel, Copper already gave it to me.” He feels your cheeks. “Damn it. Okay. I am gonna give you the light blanket. Drink some of this.” He shoves a cup into your hands – it’s warm, and you sniff it. Lemon… something sweet… antiseptic…? “Don’t sniff at it, it’s lemon, honey and whiskey, and I do not give just anyone my whiskey.”

“What did I do to deserve such a selfless, caring, angry bear?” you ask huskily, and he rolls his eyes.

“You’re a pain in the ass.” You take a sip of the drink, and it burns your throat, but you take another, and MacReady shakes his head. You reach up and run your fingers through his hair, and he begrudgingly kisses it. “Okay. Well, drink that, and then we’ll see what we can do.”

“I might play chess on your computer,” you say, and he immediately looks sheepish. “…oh, Mac, how do you get Garry to agree to get a new one so often?”

“I have to get Childs to order the parts on the side and fix it for whiskey,” he admits, and you snort with laughter, coughing into the blankets. “Hey, be careful…”


End file.
